Poetry

Cocoons

Doubt

I fall back on tried and true topics,
I want to know people,
but maybe it’s not the knowing
but the growing that’s important,
I need to crack myself open like a
seed and
sp(l)it rivulets of juice into waiting mouths,
I stand at crossing roads
and watch dusty skin spin to the ground,
outdated and unnecessary,
as my husk dries in the sun
and I wonder
if heavenw(a/o)rd is
all that’s left.

Acceptance

To think a dozen milestones in the span of an hour:
a potential hookup,
the likely split,
the picnics in between,
the possibility of really wonderful sex (am I that good?),
the small quiet hours of the night
spent curled up in each other’s embrace,
the glow in my face when I see your face,
the waking dreams we summon into reality,
the day in day out work of love,
the grace I want to give it,
the stumbling blocks that are givens,
the knowledge that joy can
transform like a caterpillar
and take off, on shining wings,
so I shed a tear while I smile
for the chrysalis we shared.
How long are you in town?

Movement

I resolve to re-solve the case
of my missing desire,
I am resolute in my resolution
to rekindle my fire.
A stick and a rock are what I need.
Fresh leaves, for taste,
and pepper for greed.
Flaming spice is nice while a bonfire crackles,
and a sorceress laughs
in the guise of a grackle.
I am several steps behind her –
I can’t even forage,
and for my age,
this is a deficiency.
Birds’ efficiency is to be envied,
the seeds they spot
and the grubs they’ve got;
every late worm is ingested,
and dissected desiccated pupae
are discarded as paper dishes after dinner,
the transformation inside decimated like a sinner.
I fear wing flaps
until the airwaves snap
and the bird is re-cycled into life’s circle:
food for worms.
The soil looks moist today,
and amidst its soft leaves
and stretching trees
I know there are myriad
shells a-shifting.
To sit, and wait, and sift, as bait –
every pause is a gift.

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